


Unity

by youve_changed_me_Dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Bad Parent John Winchester, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Fight, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Depression, Developing Relationship, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heaven, Hell, Homophobic John Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Post-Canon, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 15, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, References to Depression, References to Supernatural (TV), The Empty (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29946714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youve_changed_me_Dean/pseuds/youve_changed_me_Dean
Summary: After the events of the Supernatural series finale, Sam and Dean Winchester attempt to make use of their newfound free will. Now, just over month later, the two have found that they haven't been able to just "Carry On". With memories of their traumas flooding back slowly, the duo struggle to move forward and leave the past behind.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fandom! This fic takes place just over a month after the canon series finale. There is a bit of a slow start and the boys are alive and kicking. All will be explained in the upcoming chapters. I will be trying to write this fic as close to canon as possible in an attempt to continue the story realistically, as if it were coming to you straight from the TV. This story will also eventually come to an end, which I will mark in the notes of that chapter, but I will also continue it with individual add on chapters that can be read or not depending on your choosing!
> 
> *Disclaimer! I do not own any rights to any of the characters or themes from the Supernatural television show. All rights to the show belong to the show runners and owners*
> 
> As a student, finding time to write is difficult, but I will be regularly updating, at least once per week. I will also be taking recommendations and commentary into account when writing future chapters! I love commentary and will try to respond to comments as well!
> 
> As a final warning, this fic will include many themes that can be triggering for people with different life experiences. As a warning, this fic will contain violence, blood and gore, hints of depression, thoughts of suicide, substance abuse, emotional abuse, grief and mourning, references to character death, and past traumas. This fic will also include developing relationships, bumpy roads to recovery, and possible make-ups between characters that deserved more! 
> 
> It's a slow start but I appreciate you getting this far and giving me a try! Please don't forget to leave kudos, a comment, or share with a friend!
> 
> Thank you lovelies! Enjoy! <3

Sam awoke with a start, feeling the emptiness in the pit of his stomach and the ghost of a hand on his chest. Eileen had haunted his dreams for a week now since their separation. For the first time in their relationship, Sam and Eileen split because of normal problems instead of cosmic scale, world-ending troubles. Before it seemed like nothing could keep them apart, not even death or the veil. Now, something as simple and trivial as human emotion was driving a crack into their bond like an icepick in the side of a glacier.

After Team Free Will’s big fight with Chuck, Eileen had wanted to reunite and move forward together, but Sam just couldn’t. She waited weeks for him but he found himself unable to move on from the things he had seen and felt and the people he had lost. He could think of nothing but every person he had hurt along the way, like Jessica, his mother, and now Jack who was forced to take on the role of God and lose out on having a childhood. Just another Winchester that had to grow up too fast. Sam found it almost humorous that a three-year-old was running the universe and existence in and of itself now. Normal three years olds would be conquering potty training, but his three-year-old was conquering galaxies and alternate dimensions. 

One night while Eileen and Sam lay in bed, she asked him what he wanted to do with his free will. He was so caught up in his self-hating thoughts that he did not even hear her or see her hands move as she signed the question that had hung above his head for weeks now like a storm cloud foreshadowing a hurricane. He simply stared at the ceiling wishing the answers to his inner turmoil would appear on the pale paint. Then he felt the mattress shift and the warmth leave from his side. Eileen kneeled beside the bed and signed as she spoke to him

“Sam I can’t do this anymore. I love you, but I can’t help you. You have to learn to forgive yourself and move on. You can’t save everyone, but you saved the world. You have given so much up, it is time you learned to love yourself. I can’t stay until you do. Find me when you forgive yourself. I will be waiting”

And with that and a gentle squeeze of his hand, she left the room, leaving Sam alone in the dark and cold, a prisoner to his thoughts. 

For days after Eileen left, Sam could hardly sleep. She haunted his dreams and ghosted behind his eyelids even when he blinked. No amount of running could clear her from his head. It seemed he could run from all his troubles except this one. He felt like he did when he lost Jessica. There was a hole in his chest, one left by the loss of someone he truly loved, for the first time in years.

Sam begrudgingly dragged himself into an almost sitting position, slapping aimlessly at his nightstand in search of his phone. The light coming off the screen screamed at his lidded eyes as he checked the time. 10:57.

_ A new record _ He thought blankly. This was the earliest he had woken up since Eileen left his bed the week prior, although it was not his soundest or latest night’s sleep. That was the day he, Jack, and Dean had defeated Chuck. He preferred to think of it that way, but that was not why he slept so late the morning following their big fight. That was the day he lost his best friend Castiel and his almost son Jack in a matter of a few hours. He lost so much that day so when his head finally hit his pillow, he slept so deeply that he believed he might not have ever woken up and now, Sam believed he would have accepted that fate. 

He dropped his feet to the floor to search for his slippers as he stretched in an attempt to relieve himself of the ever-present ache in his lower back from his stress. Sam felt his deft fingers rake through and smooth down his hair, an unconscious habit he had formed years ago for comfort and traction in his unstable reality. He allowed himself to drop to his knees and clasp his hands tightly, mumbling quietly as he began his daily futile prayer.

“Jack. I don’t even know what to say. You have been away for weeks now and I miss you so much. You’re my family and I shouldn’t have let you go without telling you I love you. I should have at least given you a hug or something. I'm proud of you. I am so proud. I just wish you got to have a normal childhood. I wish you didn't have to grow up so quickly. I wish you could be here with us. We both miss you, even if it’s only me who is willing to admit it. We both do. 

I know you said you were everywhere with us in the rain and grass and all that and I know you said you are going to be hands-off, but I really need your help. I need your guidance. Dean, he is hurting. He needs help. He won’t open up to me ever. I never see him eat and if he is ever outside his room, it’s so he can grab another drink. I've had to do all the shopping trips to make sure he isn't driving drunk but he must be leaving when I am asleep because the bottles just keep piling up, bottles I never bring home. I'm scared for him Jack. He has been hurting ever since we defeated Chuck but I have no idea why. I assume it has something to do with losing Cass, but he hasn’t said more than a word or two about it since it happened. I feel like I’m watching him give up a little more every day. I'm at a loss. Jack, I need your help. Please, hear my prayer.”

Sam opened his eyes and stared into the dim room, once again hoping for answers to be painted onto his ceiling or walls, but yet again, there was nothing. He had prayed to Jack every day for weeks now, not getting a response in return once. He loved Jack but he was frustrated and was beginning to lose hope. Some days he cried, others he screamed at Jack to come home, but most days, just like this one, he simply pleaded for help. But it was all for nothing just like every other prayer before this one.

Sam trudged out of his new room at the end of the hall. He had been forced to move as far from Dean’s room as possible while still being close enough in case of an emergency to respond in time. He just couldn’t stay where he was. He couldn’t stand the screaming. In the late hours of the night, he could hear Dean's screams, sobs, and pleas in his sleep and it tore him apart. But this was not the worst of it. The earliest hours of the morning were when the real torment started. In those hours before dawn broke, Sam could hear the furniture being thrown and the glass shattering against the wall along with the slurred swearing. He would flinch with every bottle as it was disseminated and reel with every splintering crack of a chair or end table. Fortunately most mornings Dean only resorted to drinking, screaming, and throwing bottles, but far too many mornings were infected with the cracks of wood as his anger boiled over.

Sam's footsteps echoed far too loudly as he made his way through the looming bunker to the kitchen, desperate for the warmth of a cup of coffee to lessen the weight threatening to pull his eyelids shut after every blink. Sam felt small as he sipped from his mug alone in the kitchen, craning his neck desperate for any sound evidence that Dean had woken up in a better mood that day. He never did anymore. So Sam simply waited, sipping his coffee, stewing in his guilt and worries, begging Eileen’s shadow behind his heavy lids to leave him be, just for one day.


	2. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Chapter two is going to be a bit of a doozy so I wanted to put out a warning before reading. This chapter will include themes surrounding grief, death, substance abuse/alcohol abuse, possible symptoms of depression, isolation, and violent outbursts/blood, and vomit. With all that being said, enjoy the chapter and don't be afraid to leave comments!

Dean nursed his newest bottle of whisky as he sat in the corner of his room, tipping his neck to allow his head to rest against the wall. He felt numb head to toe. He felt no hunger even though his stomach screamed in protest, he felt no thirst even as his dry throat begged for water instead of liquor, and he felt no pain even as his back pleaded for him to stand and stretch. He simply felt nothing aside from the dull throbbing pain deep in his core that he attempted to vanquish every day with the aid of his favorite poison. 

Dean had been awake and self-medicating since early that morning, 6:00 or 7:00 at the latest. It was oddly peaceful that early with the mist of drunkenness clouding his vision and the alcohol fogging his mind. Anything to forget. 

His normally impeccable room was atrocious. Dean had not done laundry in weeks so the clothes were piled in the corner, overflowing from their basket. A particular green jacket lay balled up in the corner of the pile, shielded from view purposefully, as if ignoring it could make it cease to exist from Dean’s memory. Despite its fortress of laundry, it seemed to call out to Dean, pulsating and intensifying the deep throbbing pain in his chest, the pain that threatened his eyes with tears every time he even regarded it for a split second. 

There were splinters of wood and crumbles of glass too small to sweep up dusting the entire floor of the room, forcing Dean to constantly wear slippers or boots, although he chose only socks or even barefoot somedays, not caring about the pain. 

His gun display had been ripped from the wall weeks ago and his bed was covered in his disheveled sheets and blankets despite him rarely sleeping in it anymore. He usually found himself on the floor at night and would either be too drunk to get up or too drunk to care where he slept. 

His door and the wall next to it were riddled with dents, some colored brown from dried blood after punching the material too many times. Even the air was filthy, reeking of the stench of stale whisky and the hint of iron from the blood. 

Worst of all, he had managed to push away even the kindest and most forgiving creature in his life. Miracle was far too afraid to enter the room so he would simply sleep outside the door until Dean’s nightmares and eventually drinking binges would start. Then he would run for Sam’s room and sleep outside the younger Winchester’s door instead. On the nights where Dean’s nightmares tormented him more than others, Miracle would whine loudly until Sam would take pity on him and allow him to sleep in his bed. Sam would tell him that “Dean would be alright by morning” hoping he could convince himself it was true while hugging the dog close to his empty chest. 

Dean told himself that he was relieved Miracle would not enter the room as he feared the dog’s paws would be lacerated from the splinters and shards of glass that adorned the floor, but deep down where that constant throbbing pain resided, he hated himself for hurting the animal so. He resented himself for making the dog he had rescued afraid of his room and what was inside. 

Dean attempted to drag himself from his self-deprecating thoughts and deep inner turmoil but there was no real escape from the pure loathing he felt inside, not even copious amounts of alcohol could numb that feeling. He took a final swig from the half-empty bottle, beginning to grow sick of the taste as he had drunk from it for hours and let it slip from his fingers, rolling across the floor spilling its contents onto the wooden planks. He checked his phone for the time. 10:34.

_ Sam will be here any minute now _ .  _ He’s going to try to get me to come out and socialize again. And then he is going to make me eat breakfast with him as if that isn't the last thing I want to do.  _ The thoughts filled his mind and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He dragged himself into a standing position, using his newest end table for stability. Despite the drunken fog in his head, Dean had become quite the functioning alcoholic, or so he would tell people if they asked. He could urge his feet to move one after the other if he willed them enough and he could even coordinate that movement with his arms if he really focused, despite the blurry vision and pounding migraine he had given himself. He managed to grab a clean set of clothing, one of the last ones he had in his dresser, before swaying down the hallway to the showers, using the wall as a crutch and guide. 

Dean carefully undressed, almost falling when he tripped trying to rid his legs of his old, whisky and blood-stained jeans. He was almost amused by the bloodstained denim. He found it ironic that he hadn’t even been in a fight since the night they had defeated Chuck yet he seemed to just keep bleeding. The room spun for a few minutes, but he gathered himself enough to finish preparing for his first shower in days. 

He allowed the water to heat up before getting in, appreciating the sting of the steaming rain on his chest. He stood unmoving as the water got just hot enough to be uncomfortable. The pain was welcome though as that seemed to be all Dean was capable of feeling at the moment.

His mind drifted to recent events as he let the water beat down on his scarred skin. Like usual, he thought about all the lives he had lost, everyone he had damaged, and everyone he couldn’t save, except this list now had an extra name at the end: Castiel. He could do nothing but drown in his sorrow as he thought about that night for likely the hundredth time that week. 

The black goo and that peaceful smile haunted his nightmares. Unfortunately, his nightmares did not leave him alone when he was awake. Instead, they simply manifested behind his eyelids and roared in his ears whenever he was alone to think. 

Sam and Dean had spent weeks after Castiel’s death exhausting every resource they had trying to find a way to bring him back. Sam had ripped the bunker apart reading every book he could find on angel lore. Dean scoured the news for any signs of a new prophet coming to be, searched the entire library and stocks of artifacts, and even tried the summoning spell Nick used on Lucifer, but it did nothing. 

Eventually, Sam had given up, but Dean couldn’t let go. It was his fault Castiel was gone and he had to set things right. After weeks of trial and error, Dean had begun to lose hope. On a particularly drunken night, he even summoned a crossroads demon, ready to make a deal. He was willing to trade anything to get Castiel back. He did have enough wits about him to know he would not be willing to trade his soul, but he did bring several interesting artifacts with him in the trunk of the Impala in case things went his way. 

Dean found himself disappointed when it was Rowena that came to him instead of her usual crossroads demons. She expressed her concern to him, explaining that she wouldn’t let him make a deal and even if she did, there was no demon in Hell or on Earth that could bring Castiel back. 

He broke down completely, crumpling to the ground at her feet. Rowena simply stayed with him the rest of the night, assuring him with pleasant nothings as she made a desperate call to everyone she knew, hoping someone would be able to help her, but her call was just as useless as all the Winchesters’ attempts.

When Dean eventually moved to wash his hair, his skin had become tainted pink from the heat and he stared solemnly at his shaking hands. He let the suds rinse from his hair as he faced the faucet yet again. Dean stayed that way until the water ran bitterly cold about an hour later.

When he was finally dressed in his whitewashed jeans and a slightly oversized flannel that he normally avoided, Dean recognized a sharp pain in his stomach: hunger. Unfortunately, the hunger was overtaken by nausea and Dean simply ignored it. It was just a side effect of the alcohol coursing through his veins. However, Dean could not ignore it when it became overwhelming and he sprinted to the nearest toilet, sick beyond his own comprehending. Dean emptied the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl, surprised by just how much was inside.

“I guess I must have surpassed my limit this morning” He mumbled dryly when he was able to wash his hands. Finally empty of the excess alcohol, his head began to clear slightly and the stabbing migraine behind his eyes began to lessen minutely. He gripped the sides of the sink until his knuckles turned white, attempting to regain control of his swaying body when his stomach reminded him just how empty it was, more so now than before. 

Dean ignored it again, instead staring at his cold reflection in the mirror. Making eye contact with the empty forest greens staring back at him, Dean took notice of the hollows starting to form in his cheeks that he had not seen since his teenage years as well as the deep bags under his eyes. It seemed his eyes were sinking deeper into their barren sockets. His lips were chapped and cracked and he hadn’t shaved or trimmed his hair since before the big fight with Chuck. He was starting to look barren, bereft of life, and utterly hopeless. 

Again his stomach screamed for attention and for the first time in days, Dean surrendered to its will and left for the kitchen, not before sharply striking the mirror on the wall in front of him without warning or a moment's hesitation and shattering it into a million little pieces.


End file.
